Drat It | Lesson No. 1: Listen to Dad

It would be an understatement to suggest my father is slowing down a bit. He likes to sit, and he likes to sleep. His knees bother him quite a bit, so walking is a challenge. He turns 86 next month, and he's clearly feeling his years.

But somehow, he still manages to attend outdoor concerts with his lady friend, and most afternoons when I call to chat, he's out to eat somewhere.

On those occasions when he does have time to talk for a while, he asks about my family, the new house, my husband's upcoming novel and my jewelry-making hobby.

Conversations about the latter almost always turn to the same theme: "You need to learn how to silver solder," he tells me. "When are you going to learn that?"

Despite long years of repairing clocks and all manner of things around the house, Dad never learned how to solder silver. He's bound and determined that I will.

I think I was in grade school when Dad taught me how to use a soldering gun. I haven't had the occasion to use the skill since, but I remember the basics.

I'm told that soldering silver is a bit different from soldering a pipe, though, essentially because no one cares if you can see soldering marks on the plumbing. When you're making jewelry, the soldering work must be invisible.

Dad was forever trying to teach me one thing or another. I remember listening to detailed explanations of how an internal combustion engine works, or how a clock stores energy in its massive spring. (And why one must be very, very careful when removing that spring.)

Unlike my older brothers, though, I had little interest in such things. I wanted to spend all of my time reading books. When I started showing an interest in writing, too, Dad went out and bought me loose-leaf notebook paper.

Not just a little paper, either: At one point, I had a stack more than 2 feet tall. When we moved last year, I found a package of paper he'd given me for my birthday one year, still wrapped up in silver paper with a bow on top.

We threw out a lot of stuff when we moved, but I kept that pack of paper.

Dad was forever encouraging me to learn new skills.

"Always keep learning. You'll never regret learning how to do something," he told me. "You never know when that knowledge will come in handy."

Sometimes, he'd point me in a specific direction.

"One person on my mail route gets letters addressed in calligraphy," he said. "It sure does stand out. You should learn how to do that."

So I went to my high school art teacher for help, and I learned calligraphy. Once I'd mastered the basics, he had me write out some of my poems so he could frame them and hang them on the wall.

That was Dad's style. I don't think he ever said the words "I'm proud of you." He just hung stuff on the walls.

When I started making jewelry a few years ago, Dad once again was encouraging. He wasn't willing to part with any skeleton keys or clock parts when I wanted to incorporate them into my designs. But he'd buy me tools and even gave me one of his favorite steel blocks when I experimented with stamping metal. And he started nagging me about silver soldering.

At first, I was just stringing beads together. I didn't see much use for soldering. But as my skills grew and my interests expanded, I realized that soldering really would come in handy.

As usual, Dad was right.

So this summer, I'm taking a jewelry-making class at the Mansfield Art Center. I'll be learning how to solder. The only downside: Dad (who has now taken to hanging my jewelry on his lady friend) is going to have to find something new to nag me about.

I'm sure he will. Dad has never lacked for ideas about what I should learn next.